


Megillot

by Lysandra



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26712772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysandra/pseuds/Lysandra
Summary: “You are an uncommon sort of man,” said Uraziel.Solomon smiled, the beginnings of crow’s feet folding around his eyes. “And you, I am beginning to suspect, are an uncommon sort of spirit.”
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: Bartimaeus Fic Exchange 2020





	Megillot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Canthre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canthre/gifts).



> For Canthre, who asked for a story about the day-to-day life of one of the human-spirit pairs! Thank you for the great prompt, and I hope you like it!

Solomon of Israel did not startle like a frightened lamb. 

On the topic of demons he knew much, on ruins possibly more, and he had never been afraid of the dark. Though young, his hobby of ruin-crawling had given him a taste for antiquity and a high tolerance for surprises. He was confident in his skill and in the strength of his body, but when he pressed forward into the dark, past the ruined fragments of a door, into a small chamber that had been sealed long ago and not since disturbed, Solomon was frightened.

The magically-conjured orb hovering over his head seemed to shed only the barest amount of light on the contents of the dusty mudbrick room. It was unadorned, neither traps nor treasures filling the space, save for one thing. In the center of the chamber was a chair of iron, crudely made, and bound to it was a body. A mummified corpse, head slung back as though the unlucky individual had still been calling out in despair when they had died. Perhaps some criminal or deposed leader, they had been locked underground with no worldly objects to their name - save for on one finger, an unremarkable gold ring set with a small black stone.

Solomon’s heart beat fast. Dread fell upon him like a lurking assassin; he took a step back, then another.  _ Leave _ , pleaded his better judgement.  _ Leave now. Something terrible happened here. _ It was more than intuition: he could sense that the veil between worlds was strained here. But for a moment, Solomon was frozen, unable to move forward or back, suspended between the urge to run and the covetous desire for the little gold ring. He thought of what he might be able to gain in the selling of such a piece, ancient as it had to be. Who knew what properties it might have? Visions of riches and swooning women danced through his head. Trembling, licking the sweat from his upper lip, Solomon stumbled forward.

As he drew nearer, he felt it, like heat boiling out of a hot oven. The aura of the ring was so powerful that it was perceptible even to his meager human senses. What sort of magic had the ancients buried here? There would be time enough to find out. First, he needed to leave. With all of the recklessness of youth, Solomon lunged at the gold band glinting in the arid darkness. Swallowing down his disgust, he fumbled with the desiccated hand of the poor soul who had worn the ring last; the finger snapped off in his palm like a dry branch, its sinews no more than woody threads. Solomon could feel the band’s power more acutely now, stinging the flesh of his palm, but his thoughts were only of escape. Clawing at the gnarled bone in his hand, he freed the ring and shoved it onto his finger.

Solomon screamed.

The pain was beyond imagining. It felt as though his hand and arm had been submerged in molten lead, and the agony echoed through the rest of his body, burning along his very nerves. Solomon collapsed to his knees, howling. As his vision narrowed to a grey tunnel, as his head swam, as he felt himself going limp against the dusty stone floor, his singular thought was  _ This is how I die. _

He did not die. When he woke, it was to the burning. Solomon gave a delirious groan and clawed at his hand, desperate to remove the cursed ring. Sitting up, half-blind with pain, his sweat-sticky fingers slipped over the metal. The ring turned upon his finger, and suddenly, Solomon was not alone.

He felt it before he saw it. Solomon’s ears popped, and the air of the crypt, already chill, cooled even more. The shadows grew longer, throwing the room into sinister relief. The walls seemed to grow closer, the room too small for the Presence within it. Solomon felt a wave of nausea come upon him; his heart thundered in his ears and his breath came in ragged, painful gasps. He forced himself to his feet and turned, and there it was: the Spirit of the Ring.

Solomon was a formidable magician and had summoned many demons in his time, great and small. This, however, was beyond his comprehension. The creature stood - or hovered, or simply existed - as a sucking void in space, an impenetrable shadow roughly the shape and size of a man. The force of its presence billowed outward, filling the room, and for a moment Solomon felt his mind teetering on the edge of madness. He wanted to scream for help, but he knew no help would come, and still the ring tortured him.

Solomon could feel the creature training its attention upon him. Being the sole object of its gaze was like staring directly into the face of the sun. His eyes began to water, and he tasted the rusty tang of blood in the back of his throat. He stumbled backward, cringing, until his back hit the wall.

“Please!” he cried, hands held out as if to ward off the evil. On his index finger, the Ring seemed so small and delicate compared to what it had invited.

“ **What is your wish?** ” said the Spirit of the Ring. Its voice was thunderous; it reverberated through Solomon’s bones, and a thin veil of dust fell from the ceiling with a faint hiss. Solomon could feel his vision beginning to fade once again, his knees buckling.

“Home!” Solomon sobbed. “Take me home!” His head spun; he started to fall...

The vault was gone. Between blinks, Solomon had been transported instantly: now he stood on a flat, mud brick roof, his surroundings very familiar. With a cry, Solomon tore the Ring from his finger and dropped it to the ground, where it bounced once before settling. Then he doubled over and dry-heaved, overcome with the mixture of pain and a strange, inexplicable nausea. Then he lay down on his back, eyes closed, and allowed the sun to bathe him. 

For three days after, Solomon did not touch the Ring. He placed it within a locked box beneath his bed, and each night before he slept, he opened the box to gaze at it wonderingly. There was no doubt: this was a relic of unparalleled power. With it, he might rule the world - provided he was careful. Doubtless the entity contained within was savage indeed, and would reduce him down to a pinch of ash were it only given the opportunity. Of course he couldn’t entrust it to someone else - any man might become a despot with such power at hand. It must have been fate, truly, that Solomon himself was the one to find it. 

He slept fitfully, turning the problem over in his mind. He did not go out, wracked with anxiety that the Ring with its blistering aura would attract enemies to him. His demonic slaves shrieked and cringed when they looked upon it, its potency burning them even at a distance. Solomon slept little, pacing his bedchamber, thinking. On the evening of the third day, he summoned the Spirit of the Ring once again.

Being prepared for the pain did not make it easier to bear. Solomon doubled over, shaking, groaning through gritted teeth. The adrenaline dulled the agony not at all, and it was with a gasp that he forced himself to turn the ring upon his finger.

“ **What is your wish?** ” asked the Spirit. The yellow glow of oil lamps did nothing to illuminate its form; it remained a hole in the air, inky-black.

Solomon was uncertain whether he had strength left to make such a wish. He steadied himself, hand against the wall of the estate his father had erected, and forced himself to look at the apparition before speaking. “Spirit of the Ring,” he gasped, “tell me your name.”

“ **Uraziel.** ” The sound of its name struck the seven planes like a boulder tossed into still waters. Solomon choked, knees buckling briefly. Truly, this spirit’s power was no illusion. To bind it into the Ring had been no mean feat, and Solomon counted himself lucky that he had not been there to witness it.

“Tell me, Uraziel,” said Solomon, his voice thick with strain, “is it the case that you are bound to do the bidding of he who wears this ring?”

“ **It is so.** ”

“Then listen closely,” said Solomon, breathing hard. He stood up straight, though his limbs trembled like an old man’s. “I am Solomon. I am your master. From this day forth, you serve only me.”

Could he detect amusement radiating from Uraziel’s featureless form? Surely not. “ **As you wish,** ” it said.

“We have much work to do,” said Solomon. “We begin now.”

* * *

Months passed, then years, and King Solomon of Israel and his kingdom waxed into ever greater power. With the Spirit of the Ring quite literally at hand, everything that Solomon had ever wanted came as easily to him as pollen on a spring breeze. Men and women flocked to his side, demons cowered at his might, and riches piled up in his coffers. Though the pain of the Ring’s touch was a terrible burden, it was one he had learned to master, until he could wear it for hours at a time and not reveal so much as a twinge.

One evening, when Solomon was twenty-seven years old, he was returning to his apartments from a banquet dinner when he noticed that his silk robes had begun to fit loosely in the hips and shoulders. Perplexed, he strode into the bathroom and removed the Ring in front of the mirror. It was then that, for the first time, he noticed the effects of the Glamour that Uraziel had placed over him. He had known that it added luster to his hair and eased away the bags under his eyes, but now he realized that, without it, he had begun to grow thin, that his hair was graying at the temples, and that his skin looked pale and drawn. Mouth set in a grim line, Solomon returned to his bedroom.

As in all things, here the King required the best. Although his private chambers were somewhat more modest than the rest of the palace, he had had the room furnished with fragrant woods, fine silks, and plush rugs, so that he might retire in comfort. It was here that, steeling himself, Solomon slipped the golden band back onto his finger and turned it for the final time that night.

“ **What is your wish?** ”

As always, Uraziel’s appearance made Solomon’s ears pop and his stomach drop into his feet. He took a breath to steady himself against the surge of discomfort. Uraziel was unmoving, a shadow with no source.

“The Ring,” he said, “has aged me. I see it in my face and body. I am growing weaker. Why?”

“ **You were warned,** ” said Uraziel. “ **To use the Ring draws upon the strength of its wearer.** ”

Solomon frowned deeply. “But so soon? My body is young still. I thought…”

“ **The energy pulled from you is relative to the feats you have asked of me. Your use of the Ring has been liberal. You will grow old before your time. Be glad. Most of my masters did not live to grow old at all.** ”

Solomon shrugged off this ominous warning. Uraziel had said many similar things, and almost always Solomon dismissed them as words intended for lesser men than he. He was preparing to remove the Ring when Uraziel spoke unprompted. He almost never did so, and never without great cause.

“ **I would ask you a question, Solomon,** ” said the spirit.

“Ask,” said Solomon, affecting an air of grace despite his pain.

“ **For years now, the Ring has been on your hand, and my power has been yours to wield. I have watched you erect a palace and populate it with servants. I have watched you court wives and diplomats alike. I have watched you bring peace to nations and succor to the suffering. All of these things you have done, but you have not used the power of the Ring to conquer. From east to west, you could rule the lands. You could trample your enemies into dust and take their riches for your own, and yet you do not. Why?** ”

Solomon folded his arms. “I have thought of it from time to time,” he admitted. “As any man in my situation would. But I have more than my own kingdom to think of. When the Ring was hidden away, it was with good reason. Its power is unmatched, and in the wrong hands it could cause death on a scale I can scarcely imagine.” Solomon examined the Ring, stroked it with his thumb. “Were I to do as you say - summon an army, conquer the lands - then those hands would be my own. As it stands, I am content, and the world turns on.”

“ **Is that truly your reasoning?** ”

Solomon raised a regal brow. “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

“ **Then you are an uncommon sort of man,** ” said Uraziel.

Solomon smiled, the beginnings of crow’s feet folding around his eyes. “And you, I am beginning to suspect, are an uncommon sort of spirit.”

“ **There are others as powerful as I.** ”

“I do not speak of your strength,” said Solomon, “but rather of your temperament.”

“ **What do you mean?** ”

“In the years since I acquired the Ring, you have never tried to deceive me. You have never lied, never played tricks on my mind, never attempted to break your bonds. Quite the opposite: you have offered me wisdom and led me to safety when I began to stray.” Thinking on it, Solomon felt suddenly humbled. It was not a familiar sensation. “In fact,” he continued, “I have written down many of the things you’ve said to me so that I might consider them later. Perhaps even share them with future generations.”

“ **You think of the future often.** ” 

“I have a legacy to consider.” So saying, Solomon glanced around the room. Suddenly, all the finery seemed hollow. Perhaps, he thought, he would trade it out for some more humble furnishings in this section of the palace. He thought of how a scholar might decorate his cell. Whitewashed walls, dark wood. Candlelight. There would need to be plenty of candlelight. Yes, that was aesthetically appealing...Solomon blinked hard. His mind was beginning to wander, the effects of the Ring and Uraziel’s presence draining him.

“ **As do I.** ” Here Uraziel’s voice was uncharacteristically faint, and Solomon mustered his strength for one final line of questioning.

“What legacy is there for a spirit such as yourself? You cannot have children, nor found an empire, nor devote your lives to study.” Uraziel’s blackness seemed to draw itself closer together for a moment before he replied.

“ **Look around you.** ”

Solomon did so, perturbed. 

“ **This palace is my art. When I planned for its creation, I knew that I was carving my mark into the soils of your lands. When the towers filled with people, I knew that I would watch over them.** ” Uraziel’s voice carried a weary pride. “ **These things are your legacy. Yours, your father’s, and mine.** ”

Solomon swallowed heavily. “How can it be,” he asked, “that you are so benevolent, and other demons so wicked?”

Uraziel gave a sigh like the ocean rolling against a cliff. “ **Oh, wise young Solomon, you are a fool yet,** ” he said.

Outraged, Solomon leapt to his feet, but the gesture felt infantile in the face of Uraziel’s implacable power. He yanked the Ring from his finger. Uraziel vanished, and blood dripped from Solomon’s nose, spattering on the white silk of his robes. He stared at the gold band in his palm, panting. He would get his servants to bring a cask of wine to his chambers, he decided. He would drink deeply and he would not allow himself to be disturbed by the demon’s insolence. Most often Uraziel's guidance was sound, but then he would say things that so violently clashed with Solomon's own perceptions that they jarred him to his core. Solomon was a king. A king needed to be both strong and sure. He couldn't allow his mind to be addled by the ramblings of servants.

Within hours, the spirit’s parting words had been forgotten.

* * *

“ **What is your wish?** ”

“Today, it is to ask you a question.” Solomon eased himself into a chair.

“ **I have one thousand eyes and see through all illusions. Ask, and I will answer.** ”

“How old are you?”

Uraziel seemed taken aback; he paused before answering. “ **It is difficult for me to say. When I was first summoned into this world, its people did not live in cities, as they do now. They traveled in bands, moving with the turning of the seasons. Few spirits were summoned then. When they kept time, they marked the months, not the years.** ”

“You must have seen many things in so much time.” Solomon leaned forward, forearms propped on his aching knees. So Uraziel was older even than he had guessed.

“ **Not as you might expect. I have spent most of my time in one vault or another, hidden away from ordinary people. Before I served you, my tomb was the ruin in which you found the Ring. Now it is this tower. Though I can observe the comings and goings of the world from afar, only rarely have I seen them up close. At least your tower has a window.** ” Uraziel moved over to the window now, in flickers and twitches, his juddering form like the reflection on the surface of a disturbed pond. Stilling once more, he gazed out pensively into the night.

For the first time, Solomon had detected a note of melancholy in the spirit’s tone. He could relate to the feeling - in recent days, he spent almost all of his time indoors, consumed by pain and weakness. An idea began to form in his mind.

“That is all for now,” said Solomon.

“ **As you wish.** ” Uraziel did not question it. He turned to face his master, bowed, and was gone.

That evening, once the sun had gone down, Solomon made his way down from the tower that housed his bedroom. The Ring was on his finger, the Glamour that hid his weakness from the public eye firmly in place. This time, however, he went alone. Though the descent was rife with traps, Solomon himself encountered none of them, and passed unmolested out into the gardens.

As always, the plants were lush and healthy, and the fragrant night air carried the faint sound of music. These gardens brought Solomon great peace in times of strife, and their immaculate maintenance brought him no small amount of pleasure. Solomon walked slowly by himself, tilting his head back to gaze into the night sky, until he came to a small alcove framed with ivy, secluded even from the many invisible watchers that scanned the gardens with their dozens of eyes.

It was there that he turned the ring upon his finger. 

“ **Master,** ” said Uraziel. “ **What is your wish?** ” He paused. “ **I see you have decided to take the air tonight.** ”

Solomon smiled. “I thought you might enjoy a stretch outside of that stuffy tower.”

Uraziel peered at him closely. It made him feel as though his robes were about to catch fire.

“ **You did this...for me?** ” 

Solomon patted anxiously at a sleeve which had started to let off wisps of smoke. “Indeed I did. It’s no hardship to grant you such a small thing.”

Uraziel tilted his head back to stare into the sky. It was a clear, cool night. Solomon wondered what strange thoughts passed through the mind of such an unfathomable creature. Finally, he spoke.

“ **Thank you, Solomon. It is good to see the sky once more.** ”

“Shall we walk?”

“ **How is your strength?** ”

Waning, but Solomon handled it manfully. “Sufficient,” he said. “Come. Let us inspect the rhododendrons.”

“ **They are impeccable,** ” said Uraziel, “ **as is all else in the gardens.** ” His stuffy pride made Solomon smile.

“No doubt,” he said, “but let us inspect them anyway.” Solomon set off at a stroll, with Uraziel hovering ominously at his shoulder. “I have another question, Uraziel.”

“ **Ask.** ”

“How long have you been imprisoned within the Ring?” Solomon’s tone was light, conversational.

“ **I do not know. Were I to guess, perhaps four thousand years. When the Ring was first created, my masters had no written language. When their city fell, it left no traces.** ” The thought of how old Uraziel was - a being from prehistory - made Solomon have to suppress a shiver. Even the most ancient of djinn were children compared to him.

“That is a very long time to be confined. Have you suffered pain?”

Again the great spirit seemed surprised by Solomon’s question. “ **I have.** ” The unspoken words hung in the air:  _ and yet _ . “ **When first I was captured, I suffered greatly. I thought that the isolation would kill me if not the pain. It was agony, each moment stretching on into eternity. I screamed and raged, but it made no difference. I was trapped in the interminable solitude, my mind withering away. At last, I felt insanity opening its claws to ensnare me. And then…** ”

Solomon came to a standstill. He pretended to be gazing at a nearby water feature, a statue of a woman in loose silks pouring a jug of water above her head, when in actuality he was catching his breath.

“ **I felt a Presence, something far greater than myself. I was enveloped in a burning white light. It embraced me, as a mother does her only child. A sudden understanding came upon me. For the first time, I felt as though I could see things clearly: my place in this world, and in others.** ”

Solomon stared at him, fascinated. Was this some strange delusion, some imagining stemming from Uraziel’s demonic nature? Or…?

“ **I saw that spirits and humans are one and the same, that we are kin, no matter how distant. I saw what I needed to do in order to protect all of us. I saw how I could survive. For the first time since my initial summoning on Earth, I was filled with love. Love embraced me, suffused me.** ”

Solomon was stunned. “Love,” he said. A trite concept, he had always believed, and a very  _ earthly  _ one. “And where did this love come from? A Presence, you said. I know that demons worship no devilish entities of their own.” He hesitated. “Might it have been El Shaddai himself? Is it possible that he would have come to your aid?” 

“ **I do not know,** ” said Uraziel. “ **A god, a ghost, some essential sliver of my own essence. Whatever its nature was, it saved me. Make no mistake: the pain did not lessen, but my ability to bear it increased exponentially.** ”

“I understand the feeling,” said Solomon.

“ **Of course. A lesser man would have fought the Ring’s burden, or devoted himself to finding a solution to it. You have accepted it with grace.** ”

“Thank you.” Solomon decided to continue their walk. The spirit’s story spun in circles through his mind. What a strange and wondrous occurrence! And what did it say about the nature of demons? Solomon found himself moved. “I have heard you speak of love before,” he said. “I will confess, I found it odd to hear such things from the mouth of an entity of your reputation. Most spirits, it is my understanding, care little for the affairs of Earth.”

" **For most of us, this is true,** " said Uraziel, " **but, like men and women, we are infinitely varied. There are many who merely** **_wish_ ** **that they did not care.** ”

“Why would they wish that?”

" **Can you understand what it is to love something even as it hates and hurts you?** " 

"Of course," Solomon said. “Love is often painful. But in your case, you were never given a choice. You did not assume your role out of some great devotion. It seems unreasonable to have such feelings when you are - I apologize for the reminder - a slave.”

“ **You are quite correct,** ” said Uraziel. “ **I was never given a choice in the matter of whether to be here. So why on Earth would you believe that I was given a choice in whether to care?** ”

Solomon thought about this. It seemed so sad, and so terribly  _ human _ . “I want you to know, Uraziel, that I value your counsel. Though your power is great, your wisdom is greater.”

He sensed Uraziel’s pleasure at the genuine compliment. “ **Thank you, master. I am glad to have known you. You are a credit to your race.** ”

“Not that that’s saying much,” said Solomon wryly.

“ **The standard is low,** ” Uraziel agreed.

Solomon felt himself becoming dizzy; the intense conversation combined with the gentle walk had taxed him. Uraziel could feel this.

“ **Perhaps I should depart,** ” he said.

“Depart,” Solomon agreed, “for now. Know that I will see you again soon.”

And Solomon was alone, their conversation echoing in his mind.

* * *

“This Bartimaeus,” said Solomon, pacing his bedchamber, “is insolent and crude. He delights in entertaining himself at the expense of all else, and he interferes ceaselessly with Khaba’s work. He is a pestilence.”

“ **I like him,** ” said Uraziel.

Solomon gave him a weary look that was nonetheless tinged with a certain exasperated fondness. “Might I ask why?”

“ **Even with such a master as Khaba, his will remains unbroken. It is a sign of great strength. I myself was similar in my youth. Irritating as he may be, Bartimaeus will live long and terrorize many masters more.** ”

Solomon raised a brow. “I find I cannot picture  _ you  _ defacing my murals or making lewd jokes in front of my wives.”

“ **Have you heard the one about the donkey and the old maid?** ”

At Solomon’s stupefied expression, Uraziel let out a laugh that boomed like a thunderclap. Solomon felt it in his bones, and it filled him once again with the warm glow of affection. “Ah, but it must be old indeed if you have heard it, Razi.”

“ **True enough,** ” said Uraziel. 

Solomon lowered himself into a chair and drew a wool blanket over his lap. Strength in adversity, he thought. He found it hard to see such behavior as anything other than childish antagonism, but in the face of being enslaved...Solomon’s mind wandered down a path it had taken before, more often now that he aged. He thought of all the demons his magicians enslaved, toiling away day after day. He thought of them dying in service to his empire. Could it be possible, he sometimes wondered, that they had hearts and minds the same as his human subjects? He closed his eyes briefly to clear his head of such thoughts. It did not matter, he reminded himself. Their labor was necessary, and they were rancid creatures, fickle by nature. If Jerusalem needed laborers, better they be demons than human beings. That was how the world worked: there were royals, paupers, and slaves. And was it not proof that Solomon deserved to be royalty, that he thought of the wellbeing of those lesser than he?

Yes, he thought, drawing this protective logic about him like a well-worn cloak. It was so.

“ **You are deep in thought,** ” Uraziel observed. 

“I am,” said Solomon. He sighed. His temples were beginning to pound. He was prone to sick headaches on occasion, and they had only worsened with time and exposure to the Ring. Today the pain drove out any further self-reflection. He stretched his legs out where he sat. “You have that effect on me.”

Uraziel glided over to the desk near to where Solomon sat. The force of his presence bore down upon him; it was like being caught in a gale-force wind. Solomon did not react to this. He was used to it.

“ **Writing smut again, I see,** ” said Uraziel, looming over the parchments that had been recently set aside.

Solomon sighed heavily. “It is not  _ smut _ ,” he corrected. “It’s poetry.”

“ **And yet when Bartimaeus bellows these things across the kitchen yard, it’s smut** ,” Uraziel said, turning to face his master once again.

“Bartimaeus’s compositions, I hear, are not nearly so discrete.” Solomon chuckled, and the laughter made his head throb. He rubbed at his temples, wincing.

“ **Master.** ” Solomon forced his sagging eyelids open at Uraziel’s solemn tone. “ **You wisely limit your use of the Ring, but still you use it to speak with me. So much of your strength is drained by our meetings. Perhaps you should preserve yourself.** ”

Solomon shook his head. “Do you question my judgement?”

Uraziel considered. “ **Plainly, I do.** ”

Solomon mastered his irritation and drew himself together with royal composure. “Put it out of your mind,” he said. “Your counsel benefits all Jerusalem, and I would not be so cruel as to leave you alone with your thoughts.”

“ **I understand your thinking,** ” said Uraziel, “ **and I appreciate it. But if you wear yourself down to the bone, I will be left alone sooner rather than later.** ” Solomon frowned.

“I have been thinking,” said the King, “about what will happen to the Ring once I am gone. It is a dangerous object in the wrong hands, as you well know. I had thought to give it to my successor, but I don’t know whether I could in good conscience pass this burden on to someone else.” Solomon stroked the Ring with his thumb. “In addition to that, there is one other matter: that of  _ your _ fate. You have been kept in bondage for so long, and you have always served me well. Uraziel, if there is a way to destroy this object and free you, I would like to know it.”

Uraziel gazed at him benevolently. “ **To destroy the Ring would require a great sacrifice,** ” he said.

“Of what sort?”

“ **A human life, freely given,** ” he said. “ **As was used in the Ring’s creation. There are not many who would make such a sacrifice, especially with the temptation of the Ring at hand. But I have faith that one day this will come to pass, and I will be free.** ”

Solomon rubbed his chin. “Only the one life?” he mused. “Then perhaps your freedom will come sooner than you think.”

Uraziel cocked his head.

“After all, how much do you expect I’ll enjoy my golden years after what this Ring has done to my body?” Solomon gestured to his fragile limbs. “What would be a year or two off the end of my life, in service of a friend?”

For a moment, Uraziel was silent, dumbstruck. It was the first time Solomon had seen him so. “ **Master.** ” The spirit’s chthonic voice was heavy with emotion. His silhouette bent into a deep bow. “ **You honor me.** ” 

Solomon smiled. “Oh, hush. I do tire of formalities.” 

Uraziel straightened. “ **Then to put it another way: thank you. My friend.** ”


End file.
